Chapter 14
Grayson
Volunteering at Q Solutions without Austin is a welcome distraction.
Benz has been here regularly without the team, so he knows all the workers and most of the kids.
We’re in the industrial kitchen, and I’m at the steel island, cutting vegetables for a salad as the stew bubbles on the stove, filling the air with spices.
Benz said he’d get me a bowl, but he’s trapped King in the kitchen’s alcove.
Ari Dimon, our GM, started the tradition of the team volunteering here.
It’s a fantastic organization that helps at-risk queer kids and also has outreach programs to aid individuals experiencing homelessness.
As a team, we volunteer outside of the PR days to bring awareness to the incredible things they do for the LGBTQ community.
I swear, we get more out of it than the kids.
At first, they’re excited to meet the players, but the kids quickly realize the guys are normal dudes, and it’s humbling.
Thousands of fans tell our players they’re amazing, but one pimple-faced kid drags you and it puts life in perspective.
The clients here think I’m funny because I tell them they’re more likely to achieve a career in my job than become an NHL player.
As if simply knowing the team gives them an edge even though they’ve never played hockey.
The staff backs me up, and that gives me smug satisfaction. Teenagers are the best and the worst.
I try to catch King’s eye to find out if he needs rescuing, but he doesn’t look my way.
Benzy is the best, but he can be a lot. The drama over King’s statements to the blogger has died down, but there’s so much hate on the internet that it’s hard to avoid.
There have been people who’ve blamed me for players’ injuries, so even I’m not immune to it.
“Hey, need help?” Austin stands beside me and bumps my shoulder.
“I thought you had a thing tonight.” My voice cracks with surprise.
It’s an almost out-of-body experience to suppress my instinct to reach for him.
I’m in perpetual purgatory, which I guess is redundant, but I feel it so hard.
We’ve gotten over the awkwardness, but there’s an underlying tension.
It’s sexual tension on my part. I’m so in my head about acting appropriately around him that I can’t figure out why he’s tense.
“It was canceled, so I came to help out. Did you miss me?” His shy smile should not make my heart skip a beat.
I chastise myself with the reminder that I can look, but I can’t touch. The universe gave me a mind-blowing night with my BFF, then determined that’s all I get. At this point, I’m not sure if I’d do it again if I’m not guaranteed a happy ending. The one where we sleep together all the time.
“Always.” I bump him back. We’ve spent the last few days sort of flirting, but not doing anything about it.
He’s so subtle I’m not totally sure if he’s teasing or seducing me.
He’s increasing the number of sticky notes he leaves me.
On some he’s drawn a funny face with “gotcha” and others say “thinking of you.” I’m a masochist who considers the funny verses sweet.
He grabs another knife to help me cut.
My suspicion that his darkness represents his repressed feelings worries me. I’d prefer to ignore the issue and jump into bed for beg-for-it-again sex. But that’s shortsighted. It could ruin us both.
Above all, I’m his friend. A friend who desperately wants to change his mind about there being something wrong with him. These issues are beyond my pay grade. In my opinion, he needs a therapist, but he has to come to that decision himself. Forced therapy is a recipe for disaster.
“What’s going on over there?” He lifts his chin toward Benz and King.
“Not sure, but King might need a rescue. They could be having a great heart-to-heart, or Benz could be telling him about the benefits of every single crystal in existence.” My voice is low, and Austin moves closer. He smells like vanilla, so lickable.
“I’ll see what’s up.” He wanders away.
This can only end badly for me. I’ve loved Austin like a brother, and wanting more is selfish. He’s not in a place for a relationship. Ugh, I’ve fallen into the age-old complication of unrequited love with my best friend. So cliché.
I mean lust.
I’m not in love with him.
That would be insane.
“Careful.” Austin puts his hands on my waist to stop me from backing up into him. My body burns where he touches me, craving more. “They’re all good. Gossiping about Pride Night and the gala from what I heard.”
I have to curb my feelings. If I don’t, I can lose him, my job, and a group of guys who will choose him as their friend.
In a twist, this line of thinking only encourages the otherness I hate so much.
But I don’t belong with Austin or with the team without him.
Maintaining separateness is the only way to go.
“Shit.”
Austin’s comment reminds me I forgot to text Trevor back about getting my measurements for the gala suit. He sent me links to different suits, and I picked a couple. He just needs my size.
“Swearing at yourself or me?” Austin tightens his fingers around my midsection before letting go.
I catch myself before I collide with him to maintain contact. “Me. I forgot to get back to Trevor.”
I’m relieved when a volunteer comes over to get the veggies from me. The last thing I need is to slice a finger off because I’m preoccupied with my hot roommate.
“Yikes. Text him now. You don’t want to get on his bad side.” Austin lifts his foot, and it connects with my shin, not in a kick sort of way, but a footsie sort of way. I’m clearly losing my mind and reading more into the touch.
But he’s touching me more, or it seems like more. He’s never been a touchy guy, stopping with fist bumps, backslaps, and bro hugs with pads on. He rarely bro-hugs his teammates in street clothes, even though most of the players do it.
I’m seeking out the very thing that will ruin us.
“Truth,” I agree, and pull out my phone for something to do before our next assignment.
There’s plenty to do to set up for dinner service, so once Trevor and I coordinate a meeting, I don’t dwell on Austin, even though I’m hyperaware of his location.
An hour later, we’re side by side, serving stew and salad to middle schoolers and teens who are not impressed with the dinner.
“I thought it was lasagna night,” says a gangly teen with long limbs he hasn’t figured out how to use yet. He snatches his plate away before Austin can put salad on it. “I only eat it if I’m tossing salad. Ya feel me, bro.”
“I’m a big fan of this salad. It helps me stay in playing shape,” Austin says sincerely, and receives an eye roll. “Why do we like this again? What in the hell does he mean, tossing salad, isn’t that what this is?” he asks me under his breath once the kid has walked away.
“Because we’re helping the community and the little heathens are so thankful, we can’t stay away,” I deadpan. “And I have no idea, hang on.” Pulling out my phone, I ask the app, “Hey Annie, what’s the Urban Dictionary definition of ‘tossing salad’?”
The Annie app doesn’t speak, which is strange, and when I read it, I understand why. “We’re old. It’s the new way to say eating ass.”
Austin tries to stifle his laugh but snorts instead.
“Who are you again?” A girl with purple hair points a yellow nail at me. “You’re not on the roster. Are you even allowed to be here?”
“Hey, Bex. I can’t decide if you’re face blind or purposely hurting me.” I clutch my chest with the hand not serving her stew.
She gives me a slow once-over but then turns to Austin with a blindingly bright smile.
“Hey you.” She twirls her hair. “Great game the other night.”
“Which night?” he asks, clamping his lips together because she’s full of shit. I’m proud he’s learned these kids’ tricks.
“The night you played the purple-and-black team.” She bats her eyelashes.
“For future reference, we’re the purple-and-black team,” he says, and she huffs. “And extra bread will cost you a toonie.”
“What the hell is that?” she snarls in disgust.
“Canadian money.” I stifle a laugh, and she storms away.
“And be nice to my roommate,” he calls after her.
Bex does a one-eighty and returns to us wide-eyed. “You live together?”
“Yes, as roommates,” I confirm, and stress the word.
“Pity. I knew you were a loser. It also explains how you used to plan your matching outfits,” she says as she flips her hair over her shoulder and flounces away.
“Ouch.” I set the ladle down and stretch. “She is not my biggest fan.”
“At least she doesn’t pretend to flirt with you to get a loaf of Italian bread.” He shakes his head, and his eyes skim my midsection where my shirt has ridden up.
His eyes zero in on my bare skin like a physical touch, and I drop my arms. If he keeps looking at me like that, I’ll get a hard-on in front of all these kids. Talk about a loser.
“What time are you leaving?” He meets my gaze, and there’s heat in his eyes.
I’m stunned speechless as I dissect the question for a hidden meaning. Am I reading too much into the casual touching and playful comments? Or is he suggesting something more?
Another group of kids enters the dining area, and I pay attention to them and learn their names.
“You could be a coach.” Austin pats my back, and I give him a questioning look. “You’re good with kids. You tease them, but don’t let them cross a line. I bet all the single moms and dads would fall all over themselves to sign up for your team. And you know a ton about hockey.”
“I’m pretty sure I let Bex cross a line when I didn’t call her out for saying I’m a loser.” I mindlessly ladle more stew for a volunteer.
“Bex is tough. If she insults you, she likes you,” the volunteer says. “We’re almost done, so you guys can grab some food if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks.” I scoop stew into two bowls for Austin and me, and he makes plates of salad and bread for us.
We find seats across from each other with Benz and King, then swap plates so we each have a full meal.
“Aww, cute lovebirds,” Bex sings obnoxiously.
“Don’t be jelly,” Austin says, and I almost choke on my savory stew.
“Did he just say jelly?” King asks.
“All the kids say it.” Austin shrugs. Our long legs tangle under the table, and he traps one of mine between his two. But he doesn’t look at me or say anything.
When his legs squeeze mine, I cough in surprise, and he raises an eyebrow.
Benz thumps me on the back. “We need you, Gray. Don’t have a choking accident.”
“Yeah, Gray,” Austin taunts.
Either I’m crazy or he is.
This could go either way.